


Colours

by WriterX



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blind!Sherlock, Established Relationship, M/M, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterX/pseuds/WriterX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes never thought the end of the universe would be so colourful. Not when the man had lost his eyesight to the cruel licks of the flames when he was but seven years old.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colours

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contest entry for "The Writers Helpers Competition" on tumblr! They asked for a short story under the word limit of 5000, and you had to use at least three of the phrases that they listed. My chosen phrases are in bold in the story.  
> I chose to write a Johnlock fanfic for this competition, and I'm posting it here for everyone to enjoy. Hope you like it! Wouldn't mind a kudos just to know if I'm doing something right with my writing. ;)  
> Love ~X
> 
> Chinese Translation: http://ran-love-luffy.lofter.com/post/158f36_6089ec

**Sherlock Holmes never thought the end of the universe would be so colourful.**

Hands gently push him back against his bed, his knees shaking as he sits down, fingers spreading across his chest and pushing him down onto silky sheets, soft and subtle against the feel of his bare back. Lips trickle a trail of cool water down his neck, gentle and never ending.

Blue were the tears his mother wept by his bedside in the hospital when he was seven. Blue was the aching loneliness in his chest, isolating him as an island in a never-ending body of water. Blue was the disappointment dripping in his father’s voice when he was caught with a fag hanging between his lips and smoke circling his dark curls. Blue were the tears he sobbed into his pillow late at night. Blue was choking, drowning – his chest so tight he ought to burst and his teeth clamped down tightly to insure no one was roused by his silent regret.

Blue were memories of the past that ought to stay locked in trunks and buried where none may ever revisit. Blue was the depression that dripped off his skin when the cruel torments of his classmates bounded around his head like leaping gazelle. Blue was the sadness and pain that he set out to shed when he moved to London.

A tongue traces his Adam’s apple and licks the stubble forming on his chin after staving off shaving for two days. A shudder swims through his body as fingers melt against his skin, drawing out a breathy moan that floats through the room like the calm trickling of a brook.

With John, blue is the sound of rain tapping at the window as cool lips find a path of water in the lines of his neck. Blue is the comfortable silence in the flat as the two men dine in each other’s company. Blue is the way John sighs and informs Sherlock they need more milk – when the doctor knows very well that he will have to go buy it himself. Blue is the hint of a smile at his lips when John’s head of hair lays tousled on his lap. Blue is the calm and peace that Sherlock had been denied as a child.

John climbs onto the bed with him, and fingers trace like silk against his ribs, pointing out every protruding edge to the genius detective. There’s a murmur on his lips, a requirement for food to be ingested silently pleaded. Sheets slide against his skin as fingers find their way to his trousers, the audible sound of his zipper coming undone the only noise in the room.

Violet was the ache on his skin when he fell on the pavement. Violet was one glass of wine too many, and drunken conversations screamed through walls. Violet was the way his mother would flinch if he moved to touch her cheeks. Violet was Mycroft’s smug smirk when Sherlock was proved to be wrong. Violet was pain – hurt that stung the surface and left bruises festering in the bloodstream.

The skin of his bare legs slides against silken sheets, and violet is vanity. Violet is the lush promise of John’s lips pressing against his own. Violet is the whispers on the pillow when toes curl around each other for warmth. Violet is a reminder that it is okay to be selfish. Violet is a deep lust, desire in the barest brush of fingertips. Violet is indulgence in a rich chocolate that leaves you fully satisfied with warmth curling around your every extremity.

A breath leaves his lips in a soft glow of warmth, drawing John closer to him, their skin melting together as the hindrances of garments are removed. Lips connect in the warmest haze of brilliance, minds twisting about in wonder and spectacle.

Yellow. Yellow was the sound of his mother’s laughter when she was trying too hard to pretend to be normal. Yellow was the taunt of friendship that was always just outside his grasp. Yellow was the flash of hope at the end of the tunnel that could never quite be reached. Yellow was offered promises that always ended up twisted and smudging grey in the corner.

A soft moan into his lips, and yellow is the feeling of the sun against his skin. Yellow is the smile that spreads across his face when John tells him he’s amazing. Yellow is the feeling that blooms inside his chest when his doctor’s fingers brush against his skin. Yellow is the sound of John’s voice when he scolds Sherlock with ‘ **I’m sorry, but how old are you today?** ’ when he’s complaining about anything. Yellow is the promise of something special that he holds in his hands – a promise that he can keep and slip around his finger.

Lips migrate to his ear, and his fingers splay across John’s back. Words slip from their lips, and the man on top of him chuckles, the sound deep in his belly like the beginnings of a dragon’s roar.

Green was summer days running through clinging blades of grass. Green was the stickiness on his hands when he climbed a tree to let the wind caress his face like an old friend. Green was the moments between the pain where he could relax and be normal. Green was forgetting his condition and running around the backyard with no worries. Green was hunting for puzzles and mysteries with no one to say a word against him. Green a chance for peace.

With the laugh in his ear, green is John. Green is how John is like sunshine on a summer’s day – like splashing your feet in the creek as you skip stones across the surface. Green is John’s steady resolve of a mountain standing tall against a fierce wind. Green is the heart of John’s that resembles that of a puppy that longs for a companion. Green is a mystery wrapped up in an enigma and sliced into parts of a riddle.

Orange was the sound of leaves crunching under his boots in the fall. Orange was the taste of his mother’s homemade cookies. Orange was pumpkins, jack-o-lanterns and the chance to pretend to be someone else. Orange was an escape in an ecstasy delivered by needles shot into the bloodstream. Orange was the words ‘ **I’m sorry, I swear, I wouldn’t have come back if I knew it’d be this way’** that he told his mother after he’d returned from running away from home when he was eleven. Orange was the chance to leave the painful truth behind and wrap oneself in the fantasy of a safety blanket.

With a long, drawn out breath, and the connection of two souls, orange is the reason not to hide. Orange is the open and honest reaction of one ex-army doctor’s sight of the scars on a certain genius detective. Orange is the trust between the two men when a gun is pointed at them. Orange is the truth floating in the air when all the cards are down on the table. Orange is ripping the bomb off of John’s chest and making sure he is okay. Orange is the chance to be accepted fully and completely for who he is.

Lips press against each other, and three soft whispered words enter the bedroom. Words spoken upon the truest feelings of the heart, and the world became red.

Red was pain. Read was the raw scratching of his throat. Red was the primal scream that ripped its way past his lips. Red was the fire tearing away the eyesight of a seven year old boy. Red was the ugly scares that licked at his skin. Red was the shame of being marked so cruelly by such an elementary enemy. Red was anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach. Red was the wetness against his knuckles for exerting his frustrations upon a solid brick wall. Red was the beginning of the end.

His own name is a whisper into his ear, heart curls in his belly, and red melts into warmth. Red is fingernails scratching down his back hard enough to make his whole body arch into the touch. Red is the warmth in John’s voice the first time he whispered ‘I love you’. Red is the feel of John’s lips pressing against his own, the feel of hands and skin sliding together in a passion that symbolizes red down to the very core. Red is loving John.

For Sherlock Holmes, the end of the universe appeared in the form of an ex-army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a thirst for danger.

John Watson.

The end of the universe he used to fear and despise began the very moment that man walked through the doors of a lab in St. Bart’s Hospital in London England.

With a head thrown back in ecstasy, and a lover’s name spilled from lips bruised from rough kisses, the end of the universe is an explosion of colour and feeling for a man who no longer remembers what colour actually looks like. **It had never bothered him before, but then it was all he could think about.**

Black.

Black is tilting his head at silence and wrenching himself out of the memories of colour. Black is the itchy suit he wore to the funeral of the man who gave him colour. Black is the stone cold feeling in his stomach when he had felt John’s blood run wet over his fingers. Black is walking to the kitchen to only make one cup of tea instead of two.

There are no fingers pressing against his skin any longer. There is no voice singing in the shower just down the hall. There is no one telling him to buy the milk. No one to wake up to in the morning. No one to smile for. No one to hold his hand and comfort him when he remembered the words that slipped from dying lips.

“You filled my life with colour.”

It is all black.

The only thing left to do is white. White is the feel of sugar rubbing against his fingers for his tea. White is walking back to the couch, a decision no longer itching to be solved in the back of his mind. White is the feel of John’s favourite jumper against his skin. White is the feel of cold steel in his fingers. White is the promise of the light at the end of the tunnel. White is the promise of finding John again.

White is the shot of the gu – 


End file.
